


Hope

by hysteriadreams



Category: Muse
Genre: Adult Content, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-08 08:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1933983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hysteriadreams/pseuds/hysteriadreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-AU. Matthew is reminded of a past filled with hardships in the form of a letter. This takes place throughout a period of months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the lovely Brigi for beta-ing this. I love you.

9 September, 2006

Greater London

****  


It was eleven o'clock on a Tuesday night in September. Occasional showers had recently plagued the Southern and Eastern regions of the country, and the city of London was no exception. Humidity clung to the edge of every borough, splayed itself against the walls of every building, and crawled its way through the nooks and crannies of every alley. Downpours had become something predictable, something expected. However, that night there was no heavy rainfall, but merely just the faint tapping of raindrops on a panelled window.Those were the only sounds, apart from the beeping of a machine in the far left corner, in an otherwise silent room.

There were two men present in the sizable space, one sleeping, the other contemplating his leave. The latter had come to the conclusion that he needed a break from all the tumult his life had recently been afflicted with. He paced the room with slow, languid steps. He really didn't want to go, but he needed to. He needed more time to himself—something he'd had a surplus of for the past few weeks—but something was holding him in place. Looking back at the sleeping figure on the bed, he sighed and approached his side. Placing a warm hand upon a cold cheek, a silent tear fell from the man's eye and onto his jacket. His thumb stroked at the delicate skin beneath him.

"Please come back to me," he whispered, his voice cracking.

He stood there a moment, letting his gaze roam the other man's face before wiping his tears quickly and heading for the door. Taking one last look back, he quietly drummed his fingers on the wood and bowed his head, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

****  


———

****  


Two months later, heavy sunlight broke through thin, white curtains. The sun's rays spread across the pale room like a disease, melting away the shadows that had taken residence in every corner. An orange haze slowly stretched its way over a pair of closed eyes and a white duvet, basking the room in tints of coral blush. The man on the bed registered the small change in brightness behind his eyelids, but only vaguely. He tried to open his eyes, but found the task impossible.

Movements limited, he tried to make a sound, but also found his throat unresponsive. Noting a faint sense of frustration within him, as he was not yet conscious enough to question his situation much, he focused instead on listening. For the time being, the only sound his mind registered was a slight beeping, but the sound came only in moments, as it would often fade and reappear again.

Seconds passed and his body, too tired to do much else, slowly fell back into unconsciousness.

Forty-five minutes later, a nurse in scrubs entered the room with a clipboard. She checked the machine, noted any changes in the patient's heart rate, and wrote down some notes on her paper. After adjusting a few small tubes near the patient’s wrists and mouth, she headed for the door. Opening it, she looked back at the patient with a deep frown and sighed.

She failed to notice a pair of fingers twitching slightly right before she closed the door.

****  


———

****  


"Was it random?"

"I don't think so."

"So you think it was in response to something?"

"That's what I believe, yes."

"In response to you?"

"Surely."

"Well," the doctor sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair, "that's obviously an improvement." He moved to the patient's side, keenly observing his face for a sign of movement—anything that would signal a quicker recovery. When he found none, he said, "We'll be monitoring him more closely from now on, so make sure to check his vital signs at least seven times a day. I'll visit daily, but his MRI scans after the accident show that the damage isn't typical of a long or permanent coma. He should be able to recover quickly."

The nurse bit her lip in worry, casting a quick glance at the man on the bed. "How long, do you think?"

The doctor absent-mindedly glanced down at his pen, his greying hair catching light of the setting sun behind him. "You're never sure, really. Each case is different, but his head trauma isn't as severe as others I've come across. From experience, I'm estimating three to four months, at the most. Of course, it could be longer than that, but his vital signs have been improving." He flipped through some papers on his clipboard, checking his patient’s most recent records. "Slowly, but improving nonetheless."

At this, the nurse smiled. "Good. That's good."

****  


———

****  


"Goodness! Been getting these a lot, haven't you?" the nurse remarked with a smile, entering the room with a large bouquet of flowers in her hands. "And these are from Estonia, actually." She placed the vase of blue cornflowers in a corner of the room, having to make space amongst all the other gifts, cards, flowers and stuffed animals the patient had been receiving ever since the accident. "Soon enough we'll have to relocate you to the entire east wing," she laughed.

Of course, the man on the bed had heard her, but found it impossible to respond. He blindly extended his fingers for something that was beyond  his reach, but soon felt a warm hand intertwine with his. He felt the nurse squeeze his hand tenderly.

"I know you can hear me. I know you're in there somewhere," she said, a smile painting her lips, but vanishing as soon as it had appeared. She leant down close to the man's ear and whispered, "You just have to try, alright. I know you can do this." She squeezed his hand again to try and gain a reaction from him. "Come on, now."

The man forced himself to slowly open his eyes. It wasn't the first time he had done this—that had been days before—but he still vaguely remembered the time when he'd first noticed the light fixtures and white ceiling above him. Everything had been hazy and unfocused, as if he was seeing the world for the first time. He had only been able to see for a few minutes before everything had gone black again, but as crucial as the moment had been, he only remembered being completely exhausted. Now, however, his eyes slowly adjusted to the smiling face in front of him.

"That's it," the nurse beckoned as she was met with electrifying blue. "You can do this, Matthew."

****  


———

****  


It was a Saturday morning when the brunet, rousing from a rather unrestful sleep, heard muffled voices close above him. He couldn't figure out everything that was being said, but he caught a snippet of the conversation nonetheless.

_"I drove here as soon as you called. How is he?"_

__

_"Improving."_

__

_"You sure?"_

__

_"Yes, at a good rate. Every day, his body shows more signs of productivity and—"_

__

_"Has the family been contacted?"_

_"Of course. It's procedure."_

__

_"And?"_

__

_"Well, they visit as often as they can. They've seen movement from him and are rather hopeful. You should be, too."_

__

_"Well, I—"_

Matthew involuntarily let out a muffled groan as he felt a sharp pain in his temple. His head throbbed and his body was tired—exhausted—but he had to admit that every day he felt better, more in control of his body. The nurses were very kind, helping him each and every day with his recovery. They assisted him in small exercises and put forth commands that forced his body and mind to work. He was especially thankful of Anna, his main nurse and flower carrier, who had been with him since his arrival at the hospital. He would have to thank her once he was able to speak clearly again, but he wasn't sure when that day would come.

Another throb of pain shot through the brunet's head. Groaning louder, he creased his brows, the pain evident on his face. The other two men in the room snapped their attention towards the man, seemingly unaware of his first complaint.

"Doctor, what's happening? Why is he groaning?" The voice coming from his left was fraught with alertness and somehow _very_ familiar, but Matthew’s mind was too numb to dwell on the thought.

The brunet felt smooth fingers prod his temple, pressing in some places, checking for changes in pulse in others. "Don't worry, he's just experiencing pain from his head injuries." He immediately recognised Dr. Bayer speaking, since his voice was one he had heard too often recently. Another prod to his temple. "Actually, it's a good sign. It means his body is more alert and conscious. The lower part of his brain, here," the doctor pointed out, his fingers skimming the bandage towards the back of Matthew’s head, "experienced more damage. However, that signals a faster recovery than if his injuries had been at the top. More probability of his trauma being reversible."

“Are you absolutely certain he’ll make a full recovery?”

“Certain, never. Confident, on the other hand, yes. This case is fortunate.”

The other man let out a sigh of relief, realising he had been holding his breath for what seemed like eternity. “That’s great to hear. Thank you, Doctor.”

Dr. Bayer nodded at him. “Anytime.”

There was a moment of silence then as the man fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. He threw wary glances at the figure on the bed, biting his bottom lip in thought. Unable to contain his anxiety any longer, he asked the only question he really cared for. “Will he be the same after his recovery, or will he... y'know?”

The doctor heard pain in the man’s voice, although he had unsuccessfully tried to disguise it with casualty. “Well, from the scans, it seems the cerebellum experienced more damage. It controls coordinate movement, so if—pardon me, _when_ —he wakes up, he’ll have a bit of a problem with synchronizing certain moves. He’ll have to get used to it, but with help, his body and his reflexes will return to normal. His temporal lobe was slightly bruised as well, so his speech will not be coherent for a while once he starts speaking again.”

Hints of a smile hugged the corners of the man’s lips, but it failed to reach his eyes. “That’s nothing new.”

Matthew was vaguely aware of slow movement around him. He heard footsteps getting fainter as they approached what he assumed was the door. Whispered phrases reached his ears and he strained to make out the words, but was unsuccessful. A door was opened, then closed. Silence followed. Giving up, his body slowly drifted off to sleep, exhaustion being his ever-present companion.

As the brunet slept, a hint of déjà vu overcame the blond still in the room. He approached the bed with hesitation, but that soon vanished with the beeping sounds emanating from the machine. It was difficult to admit, but that lifeline was not only Matthew’s hope for survival, but his as well. The fact that it moved in steady peaks gave him a sense of relief and assurance, and with more confidence, he reached out tentative fingers to touch the brunet's hand. Warm—as he was used to—but certainly not what he’d felt the last time he had stepped into this room.

It was a comfort to know that the delicate hand now felt warm in his palm, not cold and frigid as before.

He then brought the hand to his lips, placing a tender kiss upon the pale skin. “You came back,” he murmured against ivory knuckles, “and so did I.”

****  


———

****  
  


7 January, 2007

London Bridge Hospital

7:42 a.m.

****  


_... but ever since that year, I can’t get your voice out of my head. So beautiful, truly! Sorry if my english is bad, but I try. I take lessons now, even in weekends. Now I sing along to Bliss, which is the best song ever!! When I heard it live at Palais de Versailles in July last year, my head just about exploded!!_

__

_You are a inspiration!! I am learning guitar and drums because of Muse <3_

__

_Je t’aime beaucoup! Get better soon!!! (So you can come to Paris many more times!!!)_

****  


_With much amour,_

_Amélie <33_

****  


A faint smile tainted Matthew's lips. It was number thirty-one, yet the unread letters stacked on the small table beside him and scattered over the floor indicated that he was nowhere near finished. Folding the letter closed, he placed it in a small bucket beside him. He would have some work cut out for him if he was to reply to each and every one of them.

“Ready for thirty-two?”

Anna sat beside him, her hand extended towards Matthew as she waved a pink envelope in front of him. His name was written in neat cursive at the front.

However, the brunet waved her off with a shake of his head. “Tomorrow,” he rasped. His voice had slowly come back, but it was in nowhere near the shape it had been before. About a week previous, he had been terrified to find that his once strong voice was nothing but a weak mumble. However, Dr. Bayer had assured him that, giving it some time, his voice would soon be up to par again. He would just have to be “extremely patient and careful,” something Matthew was willing to put up with. The cost of losing his voice forever was too great a risk for him, and he dreaded the thought of it ever coming true.

During the past weeks, his state had improved considerably. He was now able to move (somewhat) freely, albeit his limbs were still a bit stiff. His speech had improved slowly, but the brunet kept to simple words and short phrases as to not strain his voice much more than he needed to. He could now sleep when he wanted to—which was frequently—unlike before, when his body had no control of his rather inconsistent sleeping patterns.

To be more in control of his body was something Matthew would never again take for granted.

Anna smiled and patted his hand. “As you wish, then.” She stood up from the bed and arranged the remaining letters into four neat piles atop a small bedside table she had brought in from one of the downstairs waiting rooms. The brunet lazily observed her moves before catching sight of what seemed like eight pieces of paper folded horizontally into one. It seemed peculiar to him, since all the other fan letters had been placed in envelopes, but these were different. They stood on their own, and he had a sudden urge to read them.

“Anna,” he whispered hoarsely. The nurse stopped her activities and spun around.

“Yes?”

He weakly lifted his hand to point at the table beside him. “Th-that one.”

Anna grabbed a yellow envelope. “This one?”

He shook his head and squinted his eyes as he tried to point to the letter, or rather _letters_ , with more accuracy. The nurse finally located the papers lying atop the second pile of mail.

“These?” she asked, holding them up.

The brunet smiled and nodded. He motioned for her to give them to him, and she did, but not before she read the elegant writing at the front.

“ _Darling_ ,” she read aloud, a confused tone in her voice. Her eyebrows arched. “Darling? That’s certainly strange. Sweet, though.”

Matthew furrowed his brow and nodded. Nobody had ever called him that before. Taking the letters from the nurse’s hand, his eyes roamed over the papers. Upon inspection, however, the letters had no address on them. He doubted a fan had left them, since entry to his hospital room had been strictly forbidden to persons that were not family members or friends. The only plausible explanation his mind could conjure up was one he would rather not think about—his thoughts, following this hasty conclusion, brought forth the image of a certain man to the brunet’s head.

Matthew’s eyes grew wide with recognition. “Oh,” he whispered. His hands suddenly trembled against the papers, his nerves getting the best of him. He turned towards Anna, an apologetic look on his face. Thankfully, she understood completely and with a small smile, left the room.

Once alone, Matthew opened the papers with quivering fingers and began to read the first one.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back from vacation, so now I'm able to post this. Enormous thanks to Allison for drawing the amazing fanart to accompany this story (she's darthtofu @ livejournal). You are the best. ❤

 

 

_Matthew’s eyes grew wide with recognition. “Oh,” he whispered. His hands suddenly trembled against the papers, his nerves getting the best of him. He turned towards Anna, an apologetic look on his face. Thankfully, she understood completely and with a small smile, left the room._

__

_Once alone, Matthew opened the papers with quivering fingers and began to read the first one._

 

 

> 6 January, 2007
> 
> __
> 
> Matthew,
> 
> __
> 
> I’m probably the last person you want to hear from, but please, humour me just this once. There are so many things left unsaid between you and I, yet I know this will not suffice. A simple letter will not solve everything between us, but I hope to shed some light on wavering doubts. I don’t expect anything from you after reading this—all I ask is for you to hear me out.
> 
> __
> 
> If you’re still reading, well, I digress.
> 
> __
> 
> There are times when I surprise myself—in fact, it happens quite often. I find myself in situations that I’d never thought I’d be in, and react in ways I have never thought I would. It’s refreshing, in a way, to know that actions and decisions define you better as a person than words could ever do. Often times, we regret what we say—I do and I know you do, as well. In the end, what you say or what you don’t say does not matter, but what you do always does.
> 
> __
> 
> However, most of the time, some things are easier said than done. Sometimes we do things that stay with us forever, however hard we try to forget them. There are so many things I’ve done, so many things I regret, so many decisions and actions that define me, yet they define me adversely.
> 
> __
> 
> I guess this is why I’m writing this, Matt, because there are a million things I could do right now, at this moment; a million consequences running through my head each and every second, but I refrain myself from taking action. I’ve done so before, and I’ve hurt you.
> 
> __
> 
> I don’t wish to do it again.
> 
> __
> 
> Have you ever wondered, love, what happened? What—or should I say _who_ — exactly brought you here to this damned place? You probably have. You’ve probably thought about this ever since that day in early November when you woke up to white walls and plain, tan chairs; every minute that goes by, you probably wonder what the hell happened, but no one’s willing to give you any answers.
> 
> __
> 
> Well, it was me. I’m the one to blame for all this.
> 
> __
> 
> One night after cold drinks and heavy laughter, we retreated to our room like we always do after a gig. We made love to a warm night and a dark sky, and as always, you looked beautiful. Spent but satisfied, I fell asleep with peaceful thoughts, thinking how I had gotten so lucky to have you in my life, to have you be mine, to have me be yours.
> 
> __
> 
> Later that night, I woke to the sound of your phone going off; Lord knows, you’ve always been a heavy sleeper, so of course you didn’t wake up. I reached over your side of the bed to turn the damn thing off, but I hesitated upon seeing a message on the screen. It was a text from Sophia. Do you remember her? I’m not sure.
> 
> __
> 
> You probably don’t remember many things, love.
> 
> __
> 
> Anyway, I read the message and I remember feeling a white-hot rage fill my insides. _Babe, I miss you_ blinked back at me  in bold Arial. My breathing quickened, my hands trembled; I looked down at your sleeping figure and I imagined the worst.
> 
> __
> 
> I imagined the end.
> 
> __
> 
> So I slammed the phone down on the nightstand and got up from the bed. I strode to the hotel window and tried to even out my breathing, but it was to no use; my wall had already been put up. I looked outside, but even Leeds’ city lights could not comfort me, could not comfort my heart.
> 
> __
> 
> All I could think was, _Sophia? Were things not over between you and her? Did you not promise me you would not go back to her?_ She was your first love—your first for most things—yet that relationship had ended months back. You’d told me, _promised_ me, that I was always the one, that you were willing to give up anything and everything to be with me. I believed you, I always did, yet in that moment of vulnerability, I questioned even your most sincere declarations.
> 
> __
> 
> Your phone went off again and I contemplated ignoring it, but my jealousy had reached scales it never had before. I opened it and it read: _I heard you were in town, love. Meet me?_ My rage bubbled over then, and I found myself throwing your phone onto the floor. I shook you awake and confronted you. I screamed at you, yelled atrocities at your face, yet you remained still, shock and confusion splayed on your features. I picked up the phone from the floor and threw it towards you, realisation dawning on your face when you read the messages.
> 
> __
> 
> Instead of confessing to a crime I really hoped had never happened, you stood up and defended yourself. You screamed back at me, saying I was ridiculous and how had I even _dared_ to think that. The argument was then dominated entirely by you, and I, reduced to a mere bystander, could only step back and drown in your pleas. _She’s crazy, Dom! Can’t you see I only love_ you _? It’s always been you_ , you assured me.
> 
> __
> 
> And as much as I wanted to believe you, I’d been in this situation far too often.
> 
> __
> 
> I don’t know what prompted me to say what I did next; maybe it was a combination of my jealousy, my hurt—mostly my _past_ —but I found myself whispering _I don’t believe you._
> 
> __
> 
> It was then that I saw hurt in _your_ eyes, and as quickly as I’d said it, I regretted it. A tear escaped your eye and it seemed you were going to start screaming at me again, but you only nodded, dressed slowly, and headed for the door. I wanted so badly to run to you and stop you, to say something and everything, but I was speechless and rooted. You closed the door behind you, and suddenly the argument had seemed so pointless. Ridiculous, even.
> 
> __
> 
> I received a call early the next morning about the crash.  
> 
> __
> 
> You’d been on your way to London when you lost control of the vehicle and slammed into a traffic light near Edgware. You never made it to our flat. Luckily, the impact had mostly been directed to the passenger side, an officer informed me, but you’d suffered a severe blow to the head and was immediately transported to a London hospital to receive treatment.
> 
> __
> 
> I was in utter shock; guilt started spreading through my veins like fire and I felt myself burning under the burden of your possible death. I felt weak all of a sudden, sick with the illness that only comes from inner disgust and repentance.
> 
> __
> 
> I felt like a monster.
> 
> __
> 
> I felt like a fool.
> 
> __
> 
> I felt like death itself.
> 
> __
> 
> I stayed in the hotel room for days, not responding to company, calls, or any other form of social contact. I didn’t eat, not for a while. I couldn’t drink. I couldn’t bring myself to visit you in the hospital, too afraid of the state I would find you in and thinking that it had all been my fault, because really, it had been.
> 
> __
> 
> Chris tried reaching out to me many times, but his efforts were futile. I couldn’t talk to anyone; I refused to look at anyone. All my thoughts were of you. I thought of the possibility of permanently losing you, and never in my life had I felt so afraid, so lonely, so sickened. I no longer resembled a man, but rather a shell of a “has-been,” of a _“once-was.”_
> 
> __
> 
> The day I forced myself to visit you, you were so cold, so lifeless. You were in a coma, but it seemed you were in the eternal rest already. I couldn’t hold it anymore; I couldn’t continue with the pain any longer. I didn’t want to cause you more suffering, so I left.
> 
> __
> 
> It was the second worst decision of my life.
> 
> __
> 
> I went back to our flat, and I say _flat_ because it’s not _home_ without you, and drowned in my sorrows. I finished the bottle of Chivas Regal Tom had brought us last Christmas, and went on to finish that Hennessy Cognac you wanted to save for a special occasion. With all the alcohol I’d consumed, I was surprised to still be alive the following day.
> 
> __
> 
> Without you, however, I didn’t see the point in living anymore.
> 
> __
> 
> The weeks I’ve been away have been difficult, dreary, and dark. It’s a time in my life that I don’t wish to ever again remember or retell. All I will say is, thanks to Christopher, Tom, and mum, I’m back here with you. I’ve visited almost every day, although you never seem to be awake. When I’m here, I don’t ever wish to leave. If I could, I would stay with you all hours of the day, but I’m afraid Anna will highly disapprove. She’s a nice girl, Anna, but I don’t think she likes me. Who can blame her, really. She probably knows everything.
> 
> __
> 
> You're sleeping at the moment, but I hope you’ll read this when you wake. It’s critical you know what happened in order for there to be no secrets between us. Dr. Bayer mentioned that you suffer from mild retrograde amnesia and don’t remember anything of the accident, so I’m here to shed some light on what really went on.
> 
> __
> 
> You deserve so much more, yet I can only give you this. I can only give you my love, but after what’s happened, I’m not sure it’s enough.
> 
> __
> 
> I understand if it no longer is.
> 
> __
> 
> Just know that I love you, Matthew. I always have, and I always will.
> 
> __
> 
> Just know that all those days I was apart from you, I reminisced on better years, better moments, better memories. Not one second passed where I was not thinking of you. You plagued my mind the same way you had plagued my heart. And during my absence, I was again hit by a hard dose of nostalgia that got me thinking on all the hardships and obstacles we’ve had to endure over the years.
> 
> __
> 
> I remembered your parent’s divorce, my father’s death, and Chris' increasing alcohol addiction.
> 
> __
> 
> It was then that I began to see it all differently. I began to understand just how fragile life really is, and how nothing ever lasts forever. At some point, everything is bound to wither and decay—memories, relationships, promises, and even legacies. All destined to fade with the passing years. I began to understand how one life isn’t enough for everything, but for most things it is. I realised, in those moments, how much I longed to be by your side, just as you had been by mine all those years before. I realised how one life spent with you would always be enough for me, because there’s no one else I’d rather call mine.
> 
> __
> 
> In other words, I matured forty-something years. Still turned on?...
> 
> __
> 
> Ah, love. You would’ve laughed at that attempt.
> 
> __
> 
> Anyway, I see you now, hooked up to all these tubes and wires, and it grieves me. This silence unnerves me. Being with you always signified heavy laughter and witty banter, yet things are different now. I doubt I’ll ever get accustomed to your silence; in fact, I don’t ever wish to.
> 
> __
> 
> All I can do now is look at you. It’s night already, but I’ve not tired of gazing at your face, your lips, your hands. I’ve spent the day taking you in, drinking you up with my eyes as if you were wine. Maybe I’m just in the mood for wine, who knows.
> 
> __
> 
> I see your arm, so pale and smooth, and it takes me back to memories you’d rather not remember.
> 
> __
> 
> I’m thinking of the first time we met by the playground during our final year of primary school. You were such a shy, troubled kid. Who could blame you, really, you were going through heavy shit and I became a prime witness of it all. Whenever something would happen at your house, whether it was an argument, a fight, or something much worse, you’d come to me for relief. In many ways, I was your guardian angel—or so I’d liked to think. I guess that’s why we became such close friends; you’d always hang around at my place and soon enough, it was your second home.
> 
> __
> 
> As we got older, I remember how the kids in our class would always tease us, saying we had a “thing” and the like. We’d ignore it, but deep down, I’d always hoped there was some truth to it. It’s safe to say I’ve loved you since day one. You, with your talents, insecurities, wittiness, and intelligence; I saw you for who you were and fell hard.
> 
> __
> 
> Then came the band. It was something another friend of mine had started for fun, so I joined just to be able to say I had a hobby. When I realised I was shit at singing, I started learning the drums. I was better at that, thankfully. You eventually found out and wanted to join, but Caleb had always disliked you, for some reason. To him you were “that one weird kid” who couldn’t possibly be a musical prodigy. But indeed you were; you proved him and the rest of the band wrong, and that was when Fixed Penalty was born. Then Rocket Baby Dolls. Then finally Muse.
> 
> __
> 
> After the release of _Showbiz_ , things started to fall apart. Chris and Kelly experienced problems within their relationship, which caused him to increasingly rely on alcohol. Tensions elevated within the band as we all began to adjust to a life we’d never thought we’d be living. We were young, we were reckless. We didn’t understand responsibility, and we sure as fuck didn’t dwell on the future; for us, life had barely started. The parties, the girls, the drugs, the shows—we saw life as a game.
> 
> __
> 
> However, all this put a strain on our relationship; you soon wanted to control everything and your desire for perfection only made things worse. You were angry all the time, shouting orders and complaints every which way. You were unrecognisable. But despite your mood, we trudged on with the tour. For everyone, a hiatus seemed inevitable, but no one dared speak of it.
> 
> __
> 
> When you heard of your parent’s divorce, never before had we so seriously discussed a break. You plunged deeper into your despair and you mentioned to me how you hadn’t expected things to turn out the way they had. “Wasn’t all this supposed to be... fun?” you asked me one day. I  didn't know what to say, so I simply shrugged. I had asked myself the same thing for months.
> 
> __
> 
> You took to drinking during the first few weeks of recording _OoS_. You’d come to the studio two hours late and expect no one to notice. I worried for you then, everyone did. Chris didn’t know how to talk to you, Tom had given up completely, and I had no idea what to say. Thankfully, it was you who approached me first. One night, a Thursday night, I was surprised to see you standing at my door; your face was pale, your hair was unkempt, and your eyes were dark. I asked you what was wrong, and you said everything.
> 
> __
> 
> You spilled your heart out to me and I listened. I listened as you complained about yourself, your shit music, your shit flat, your shit family. “You’re the only thing in my life that makes _sense_ , Dom,” you told me. You told me how’d you go home and hated the emptiness; you hated how your bed felt cold in the morning, how the whole flat seemed to echo the loneliness you felt. You said you needed someone desperately because, fuck Dom, I just can’t _stand_ it anymore.
> 
> __
> 
> In that moment, you didn’t need a girl, you needed a friend. But I didn’t say it. Instead, I said, “Well, Matt, you have me. You always will.”
> 
> __
> 
> You looked at me then, _really_ looked at me, and silently nodded. So I leaned closer and wiped a tear from your eyes with my thumb. I don’t know why I didn’t kiss you then, the moment was all too perfect. Maybe, I thought, it was because you were too fragile, and I hated the thought of breaking you. In that moment, you were anyone’s, and I didn’t want to take advantage of that.
> 
> __
> 
> Then something clicked in your gaze and you leaned back. You looked down at your feet and made a grab for the tea I was sure was now cold. I sensed your tension and leaned back as well. Without words, I’d gotten your message.
> 
> __
> 
> However, hours later and with a few drinks in our system, things were back to normal. The telly was turned on to an Argentine cooking show and you were sprawled on my lap, deeply concentrated. We’d spent hours talking about anything and everything and for the first time in a long time, I enjoyed your company. I had missed you and that evening, you were Matt again. _My_ Matt, I’d thought.
> 
> __
> 
> I remember lazily grazing your arm with my fingertips; you didn’t seem to mind, and I didn’t wish to stop. You were paying serious attention to the crap show, and I was paying serious attention to you. I drank you in the same way I’ve drunk you in today. I tickled your side to try and distract you, but you swatted my hand away. When I did it again, you complained between laughs, “Dom, stop! I _want_ to know how to make a fugazza!” However, with your shit accent, it sounded more like _fugaysa_.
> 
> __
> 
> When you’d calmed down, my hand was still placed on your arm. Did you even notice?
> 
> __
> 
> I then remembered somehow I’d kept a sharpie in my pocket, and suddenly, I had an idea. Taking it out and uncapping it, I wrote my name across your wrist. Three letters, but it meant the world to me. You turned around to look at me with confused eyes, but upon seeing my name, your complexion changed. Your eyes softened, and with a small smile, you turned your head and fell asleep moments later.
> 
> __
> 
> Do you remember that?
> 
> __
> 
> Do you remember when I used to tease you for “not showering” and still having my name scribbled on your arm, even after days had passed? You would just laugh and shake it off, but somehow, you would never let me go anywhere near it. I didn’t find out until weeks later that you’d gone and gotten my name tattooed. I didn’t know any better back then, how could I? You tried your best to hide it, wearing long-sleeves in thirty-four degree weather and gigs by the beach, but I found out anyway.
> 
> __
> 
> Come on, you knew you could never keep anything from me, however hard you tried to. Between us, it had always been like that. When I told you I knew your secret, I expected you to be angry, but surprisingly you weren’t. Your eyes never left mine, and you smiled that bashful smile that one has to earn.
> 
> __
> 
> I asked you amusedly, “Why on earth did you tattoo my name, Matt? Isn’t that a bit, I dunno, weird?”
> 
> __
> 
> Yet you didn’t get defensive, and yet that smile remained on your face. God, how that smile killed me, but I didn’t show it. I bet you still saw through my veneer, as you always have been able to do, but you didn’t address it either.
> 
> __
> 
> Your eyes were still fixated on mine, staring intently, when you said, “Because you didn’t just write your name on my arm, Dom.” You pulled up the sleeve of your shirt then, revealing your wrist and my name, and lightly stroked your fingertips over the black ink and the raised skin. “To me, you wrote hope.”
> 
> __
> 
> In that moment, I felt like the happiest man alive. That night had _meant_ something to you, just as it had meant everything to _me_. Your words, like my name, had given me hope. Short-lived hope, rather, since a few weeks later you met Sophia. But that’s another story.
> 
> __
> 
> Anyway, I’m sorry this letter is as long as it is. I get wordy when I think of you, is that weird?
> 
>  
> 
> Ha. Nevermind, don’t answer that.
> 
> __
> 
> I guess the whole point of this is to tell you that you are one of the strongest human beings I know, Matt. If you could get through all that shit, you can get past anything. Even this. I believe in you.
> 
> __
> 
> Life often presents us with difficult situations, and our only option is to overcome them. You did so before, and you can do it again. I’m here for you, for everything and anything. Never again will I leave your side; I guess now you’re stuck with me forever, like that huge piece of gum you stepped on in year six (those shoes were crap anyway)...
> 
> __
> 
> Ah, Bells. I miss you. I love you, don’t forget that.
> 
> __
> 
> Hopelessly, endlessly, remember?
> 
> ****  
> 
> 
> Forever Yours,
> 
> _Dom_
> 
>  

 

Matthew's wide grin deceived no one as his eyes reread the last line of his letter over and over again. A small blush had crept up his cheeks and was threatening to cover his whole face as the last paper slipped from his fingers and onto the bed. Dominic was never one of letters and clichés, he knew that; he showed his love in subtle ways. He wasn't a man of drama and show, as he was ironically known for on stage, but rather a gentle soul with a gentle heart and gentle placidness that seemed to radiate within every room he set foot in.

In other words, it took a lot to push Dominic to the edge.

Grin fading, Matthew’s joy was short-lived as his mind suddenly reeled and his heart suddenly ached. Dominic’s words reverberated through his thoughts, truly sinking in. The blond had suffered in a way Matthew never thought he could. Sure, Dominic had experienced many tragedies in his life, the brunet having been witness to them all, but never in the intensity he’d described. It pained him to know just how much all this had greatly affected him; granted, he didn’t remember the fight he’d had with Dom just before the accident, but it seemed silly to think how something so little had caused something so massive.

Looking down at all the tubes and wires strapped onto his body, Matthew told himself he should be angry, _furious_ at Dominic for causing this, for putting him in this situation. However, the brunet couldn’t find it within himself to harbour such anger; he wasn’t resentful of anyone, much less his partner. It had been his fault just as much as it had been Dominic’s.

In that moment, all Matthew wanted to do was to see him, feel him, touch him, _hear_ his voice. All the weeks he’d noticed the other man’s absence had deeply tormented him. The urge to see his lover threatened to rip him in half, and he found himself stretching his fingers as if Dominic’s hand was within reach. It wasn’t.

The brunet instead reveled in the thought of seeing him soon. It excited him to think that Dominic had been in his room only yesterday, sitting in the chair by the window and pouring his heart out onto paper. He never imagined Dominic felt the way he did towards him, because that’s exactly how he felt towards the blond. It warmed his heart to think that at long last, he’d found someone who understood him and loved him as completely as he did. Not that he ever doubted him, but to think that Dominic had never loved anyone as much as he loved Matthew definitely made the brunet smile once more.

 

A relationship like his was rare to come by, and Matthew felt himself fortunate of finding such a person in his life. However, he knew such a person had been there all along, he’d just needed to look closely enough. He had to look at the past to see who had really been with him through it all and that someone was Dominic.

 

That someone will always be Dominic, he figured.

 

Matthew sighed in content, making himself as comfortable as he could on the rather stiff bed. He turned his head lazily towards the window and grinned, spotting a Robin fluttering about on the windowsill. Although he was currently in a hospital room, he felt free, just like the bird. At that moment, he felt as if he could do everything, be anything.

 

As Matthew contemplated future possibilities, he heard a door open and shut with a soft clicking noise. He was slowly about to turn his head around when he felt a familiar scent in his nose and a familiar taste in his mouth as full lips kissed him tenderly.

  
A "hey, beautiful" was whispered into his ear by a velvet voice he could recognise anywhere, and in that moment of perfection, Matthew was sure that hope, indeed, took on many forms.

 


End file.
